


Merry & Bright

by PepperVL



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, F/M, Fake Marriage, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Matchmaking, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL/pseuds/PepperVL
Summary: A chance encounter with drunken carolers reminds Aziraphale and Crowley of another Christmas two hundred years earlier when they'd been annoyed by the same song. In 1818, Aziraphale had been a woman-shaped being in possession of good fortune living quite scandalously alone in Soho. Crowley had been a gentleman-shaped being who needed to convince his assignment that he wasnota potential spouse for the man's daughter. They solve one problem with the other by pretending to be married. Can they pull it off and find a husband for the eligible young lady so Crowley can get on with his temptation?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 145
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Merry & Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OneofWebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/gifts).



> A gift as part of the Good Omens Holiday Swap for [OneofWebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs) who wanted Regency-era female-presenting Aziraphale and suggested fake marriage. I love fake relationships, but I’ve never written one before, so I couldn’t resist. Regency is a bit outside of my wheelhouse, so this was a bit of a challenge, but one I had fun with. Hopefully I didn’t mess up the Regency stuff too badly. I hope you enjoy it. I’m sorry this is so late; life hit me hard at the end of the year. 
> 
> Please note, this is tagged both M/M and M/F because in the modern sections, Aziraphale presents as a man, but in the Regency sections, Aziraphale presents as a woman. I use the pronouns and descriptor that matches the presentation.
> 
> Thanks to Artemis & Janthony for the beta.

**December 2018 – London Soho**

**__** _Hark the herald-angels sing  
“Glory to the newborn king;_

Aziraphale stopped as a group of young people stumbled out of the pub and started weaving drunkenly down the pavement singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”at top volume. “Must they, really?”

_Peace on earth and mercy mild,  
God and sinners reconciled”_

“’tis the season, angel.” Crowley sent a demonic miracle toward the pub door, sticking it open so more revelers could spill onto the pavement. “I thought you liked celebrating Christmas anyway.”

_Joyful all the nations rise  
Join the triumph of the skies_

“As if you don’t,” Aziraphale chided. He knew Crowley enjoyed Christmas as much as he did, though the demon had always played it off as a good season for irritating people.[1]

Crowley merely hummed as he sent another miracle back to close the pub door.

_With angelic hosts proclaim  
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”_

“It’s just this song!” Aziraphale jabbed a key into the bookshop doors. It was the wrong key, but both the key and the lock knew better than to misbehave when the angel was tetchy, so the door opened anyway. “It’s worse than all your bebop!”

_Hark the herald-angels sing  
“Glory to the newborn king”_

Crowley closed the door behind him, shutting out the cacophonous singing, and tossed his sunglasses on a table. “I admit, that was a terrible rendition, but what’s wrong with the song?”

“Not a single angel said any of that, even if you account for the effects of translation and shifting language usage.” Aziraphale hung up his coat before heading to the back where he started preparing a kettle of mulled wine. The night called for it both for its festive qualities and for the alcohol’s ability to drown out unpleasant memories. “That song makes it seem like whole choirs of angels filled the sky singing about a new king being born.”

“We both know that’s not what happened.” Crowley got out two mugs for the wine and glared at the cupboard when he found it bare of anything other than glassware. He opened the other side and found it had obligingly rustled up a packet of biscuits. Not the best sort, but they would do. The better ones didn’t do as well when miracled.

“Precisely! It was a few angels delivering messages to select individuals. And nobody _sang_.” Aziraphale paused. “Well, Sandalphon _wanted_ to, but I think Uriel talked him out of it. Fortunately.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale leaned in close to Crowley as though he were about to impart an earth-shattering secret. “He can’t carry a tune!”

“Shocking.” Crowley sounded like he wasn’t at all shocked, but a bit of surprise did show in his eyes. “Of course, we also both know that the Christ child was born in the spring. It’s never bothered you that the humans transformed Yule into his birthday celebration. Why does this inaccuracy bother you and not that one?”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Aziraphale poured the mulled wine and handed one mug to Crowley. “The Christ child was sent to earth for the humans, not for angels. He wasn’t meant for us. He was important, but not any more important than the rest of them, that was the point! She sent her son to _be_ a human, to interact with humans as a human, to guide them and love them as one of them. The idea of the whole Host showing up to worship him when he’d just been born goes against all that.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully as he flopped on the couch, miraculously not spilling any of his mulled wine. “And you hate the image of flying around in a nightshirt with your halo out.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed darkly as he settled in his chair. “That too. Though I suppose you had it worse with earlier versions.”

“Yes, I always _loved_ hearing people sing about grinding my head beneath their heels.” Crowley held up his mug in salute. “Thank Someone that verse disappeared in the modern adaptation.”

Aziraphale muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “You’re welcome.”[2]

Crowley stilled as only a being that doesn’t need to breathe can, realization slowly dawning on him. “You didn’t.”

“So what if I did?” Aziraphale looked down into his mug, inhaling the delicious scents of mulled wine in the rising steam. “I was influencing the book anyway. It didn’t mean anything.”[3]

“Of course not,” Crowley agreed quickly. “Just surprised you remembered, is all.”

“Well, it did come up on a rather unforgettable night, my dear.”

“An unforgettable _week_. Though I never did ask. Why’d you agree to come? I didn’t expect you to.”

“You made a very interesting argument, my dear.” Aziraphale raised his mug in a toast. “Besides, I relished the chance to rescue you for once, even if it was only from an awkward social situation.”

**December 1818 – London Soho**

Aziraphale stood, frozen, just inside the doorway of the bookshop. She didn’t breathe or blink, her heart didn’t beat, her blood didn’t run in her veins. There was no movement that could catch the eyes of the people standing outside her door, no noise to impede her overhearing their conversation. It was one she’d heard repeatedly in the year and a half since A.Z. Fell had “died” in a tragic accident while out in the country and Aziraphale had returned as his daughter and only heir, a spinster who had been a governess until she came to London to take over the bookshop she had inherited.

It had seemed a good idea at the time—there was no chance the humans would think Aziraphale was the same person they’d come to know now that she was female-shaped—but she had forgotten to account for how scandalous the whole thing would be. An unmarried woman running a business she inherited was uncommon but not unheard of, and she hadn’t thought any further than that. She had failed to consider that she also _lived_ at the bookshop, rather in the rooms above it, and a woman who was at all respectable did _not_ live alone.

It hadn’t been an issue at first. For much of 1817, Europe was recovering from the Year Without a Summer, as 1816 had come to be known, and people were far more concerned with surviving than whether old Mr. Fell’s daughter was living respectably. But as the weather had improved, so had people’s situations, and Aziraphale’s neighbors had started gossiping.

She’d ignored the whispers, but they had gotten louder and louder until her neighbors felt comfortable enough standing on her doorstep gossiping about what sort of person she must be to live alone. The fact that no man would have her had come up no less than four times since she’d started listening. Aziraphale had no intention of getting a man—a long lost cousin from the continent would inherit the shop when she tired of being woman-shaped—nor did she care that they weren’t going to buy the books she had no intention of selling, but if she had been a human woman, the gossip would have been devastating. As it was, it would make doing good deeds harder. It was difficult to influence people who wouldn’t even look at you.

Aziraphale was just starting to wonder if she could get away with lightly smiting the neighbors on her stoop when an ornate carriage pulled by two solid black horses pulled up. There didn’t appear to be a driver, though Aziraphale suspected she was the only being other than the occupant to notice that detail. Human eyes would glide right over the empty seat and they’d assume they saw a man sitting there.

Crowley stepped out of the carriage, looking as dashing—er, as _dastardly_ —as ever. If Aziraphale had been breathing at that moment, her breath would have caught in her throat as she watched Crowley saunter past the group gathered outside the bookshop and unlock the door with a subtle snap that the humans mistook for using a key.

Aziraphale knew she should move, should step back from the door so the humans outside didn’t see her and accuse her of eavesdropping on top of her other social follies, but the gentleman who had been complaining most vociferously cleared his throat and stepped up to Crowley. Aziraphale found she simply _had_ to stay and listen.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but are you acquainted with the owner of this establishment?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows over his tinted glasses and peered down his nose at the man. He was the sort that was ripe for tempting—a jealous busybody who fancied himself of higher station than he actually was and exposing himself through foibles like approaching Crowley without an introduction—but the idiot would condemn himself within a decade without Crowley lifting a finger. It was far more cutting to let the remark pass without response than to answer him, so that is what Crowley did, letting his raised eyebrows convey that he found the human beneath him socially and then opening the door and stepping inside.

Aziraphale forced herself to start breathing again as Crowley closed the door behind him. He noticed, grinning as he removed his glasses and hat. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

Aziraphale drew herself up to her full height and pulled her tartan shawl tighter. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I had simply come over here to put these books away.” She gestured to the pile of books she had honestly been in the middle of shelving when the group outside had started talking about her.

“And you couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale smiled, relieved Crowley had given her that excuse. “Now, what are you doing here, my dear fellow? I don’t recall we had an appointment…”

“We didn’t. I, ah, well. I’d heard rumors. About a spinster bookseller who was scandalously living _alone_ and other things along the lines the riffraff outside were taking and I knew it had to be you.”

“I can’t exactly invite a human to live with me, Crowley. They’d notice things!”

“Obviously. I didn’t say you should.” Crowley walked farther into the bookshop, leading Aziraphale away from the door, and settled on one of the newly acquired[5] couches in the back. “I assumed you had it handled, only I have a bit of an issue myself that I could use some assistance with and I believe I may have a solution that will help us both.”

Aziraphale, ever the polite hostess, poured two glasses of wine[6] and gave one to Crowley, then smoothed her dress and sat primly in an armchair. “What problem do you require my assistance with?”

“I’m meant to be tempting a minor country lord into starting a feud with his nearest neighbor.”

“That doesn’t sound difficult. I fail to see what the issue is or how it relates to my… minor problem.”

“It _shouldn’t_ be difficult,” Crowley groused after taking a substantial sip of his wine. “He’s a thoroughly disagreeable man. It’s practically a miracle he hasn’t started a feud with his neighbor on his own.”

“Then what is the problem?” Aziraphale took a much daintier sip of her wine. “If it’s that easy, why are you here? He’s not an Irish[7] lord, is he?”

“Worse. He has an absolutely boorish daughter who is practically a spinster and since his wife died, he’s wholly focused on getting his daughter married and out of his household. He took one look at me and determined I would make a marvelous husband for her.”

“Well, you are rather fetching.” Aziraphale realized what she said and looked down into her wineglass, hoping it hid the blush on her cheeks. “And you do look like you have a lot of money, my dear.”

“Can’t accomplish much otherwise these days.”

Aziraphale nodded. That was sadly true. “So what did you need me for?”

“He wouldn’t let up on the idea of marrying his daughter off to me, so I finally told him I was already married, so while I would, of course, have been honored, it simply wasn’t possible for me to marry his daughter.” Crowley drank half his remaining wine in one gulp. “Now he wants an introduction to my wife. I suspect he doesn’t believe me.”

“Well, you are a demon.”

“He doesn’t know that, does he?”

“So what do you want me to do? I can’t… Oh! _Oh_. You want me to pretend to be your wife?”

“Yup.”

The idea held appeal, but… “How does that help me?”

“If you’re a married woman, you’re more respectable, aren’t you?” Crowley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your husband could live with you and travel frequently for business. It’s not an _ideal_ social situation, granted, but it will have fewer tongues wagging than you currently do.”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale fiddled with the hem of her shawl. “Well, it’s just, I’m not sure I can pretend to be married to you. That would be lying!”

“I can’t exactly walk into a church and marry you for real, angel.”

“No, of course not. Besides, I don’t think either of our sides would approve.” The mere thought of Gabriel's reaction to her marrying a demon was enough to make Aziraphale shudder.

“Probably not. But it would make things easier. Just…” Crowley waved his mostly empty wine glass around. “I don’t know. Make it part of your human persona. I’ll even miracle up a license for you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale worried her lower lip as she mentally debated Crowley’s proposal. She _should_ say no, should be appalled at the mere suggestion, but she wasn’t. It was oddly tempting, far more than it had any right to be, and she didn’t know why. The social benefits would be nice, of course, but she was more than capable of dealing with any social problems that might arise. It was the idea of cementing their relationship as something more than friendly acquaintances or business partners that really appealed to Aziraphale. She _wanted_ … not to be married to Crowley, but, well, she was starting to think she wanted something more than what they currently had, and that thought terrified her.

“Look, angel, if you don’t want to continue the charade, we don’t have to, but I would owe you if you could at least come to the country with me for a few days and get Lord What’s-his-name off my back about marrying his daughter.”

“Really, Crowley, you could at least learn the man’s name if you’re to tempt him to Hell.”

“Why?” Crowley didn’t see the point. “It’s not as though I’m going to have anything to do with him once I’ve finished my assignment. Demons don’t have cordial relationships with condemned souls.”

“Still. It’s a bit rude, at least while you’re both on Earth. You’re going to his party.”

“Come with me and you can remember his name for me.”

Aziraphale ignored the absurd suggestion. “When would we say we’d gotten married? I suppose I’ll have to miracle our signatures into the parish register”—how would she explain _that_ miracle to Gabriel?—“but which one? And when? You’ve told your nameless lord that you’re already married, but I can’t simply tell my neighbors that. They’d expect banns to have posted! Or at least a ceremony in the local parish.”

“That’s why you come with me,” Crowley said gently as he urged Aziraphale toward agreement. “I’ve got a house out there. In the general area, anyway. You can miracle our names into the register, if you want, and when we come back, we’ll tell your neighbors you’re married. I’ll tell Lord What’s-his-name that we were married in London. He won’t check.”

“But what if he does?”

“He won’t.” Crowley leaned forward, his empty wineglass dangling from his fingertips as he reached for the bottle and helped himself to another glass. “Come on, angel. It’s a _Christmas_ party. You can’t pass that up.”

He was right. As much as Aziraphale knew she should say no, the idea of a country Christmas party was too much to resist. She sighed as if it were a huge imposition—though it didn’t fool Crowley for a second—and said, “All right. I’ll come with you.”

“And… the rest?” Crowley drained his wineglass for the second time that evening. “It was just a thought. A suggestion for how we could help each other, if you will, but it could cause other problems, I suppose. People will gossip about anything and you wouldn’t want news that you married a demon to get back to Heaven, so if you don’t want to…”

Lord help her, Aziraphale did want, though, and Crowley’s nervous babbling—which he only did when something mattered to him—only made her want it more. There were things they would need to discuss, but she wanted this for as long as they could manage it. If Heaven or Hell got too close, well, they’d figure that out when it happened.

She smiled softly at Crowley as she crossed to the couch and took his hand. “I would like to try.”

“Oh. Good. That’s… good.” Crowley relaxed, melting into the couch in a position that only someone who used to be a snake would find comfortable.

“We’ll have a lot to discuss about it, of course.”

“Of course.”

“The bookshop stays mine, despite what human laws say.”

“Wouldn’t dream of taking it from you. Besides, you could always, I don’t know, change back to man-shaped and tell everyone you’re the long-lost brother who we both thought was dead or something. That’ll let you take it right back. Not that it’ll come to that.”

“It had best not.”

“It won’t, angel. I promise.” Crowley sat up and lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips. “I had best take my leave.”

“So soon?” Aziraphale didn’t want him to go. In the past they’d spent hours, sometimes days, drinking together when they’d crossed paths. Even with concrete plans for the near future, she didn’t want the night to end yet.

“I’m thinking of your reputation. Wouldn’t want tongues to wag about you spending too much time alone with a gentleman you’re neither married nor related to.”

“My reputation will survive,” Aziraphale said primly. Marrying Crowley—or pretending to, at any rate—would remove most of the tarnish from her reputation. “Any damage is already done. Those people you walked past are the worst gossips in Soho. The whole street will know I’ve been entertaining a gentleman in here and not one of them will believe it’s for business.”

“Well, in that case, do you have any more wine? It seems we have another arrangement to discuss.”

**December 1818 – South Shropshire**

“Mr. Crowley! Mrs. Crowley! Come! We’re singing around the piano!”

Aziraphale reluctantly pulled herself away from the conversation she was having with Crowley to smile at Miss Rebecca Howard, their host’s daughter. For all that Aziraphale wanted to dislike her—the idea of anyone being considered a good match for Crowley made her uncomfortable in ways she didn’t dare examine closely—Rebecca really was a sweet young woman. Aziraphale suspected that her father’s attitude and unwillingness to provide much of a dowry were more at fault for her lack of prospects than any qualities she might possess.

“We’ll be along in a moment,” Aziraphale said, already bracing herself to wade back into the crowd of humans. When Crowley had suggested it, a Christmas party had sounded delightful, but Aziraphale had forgotten that in the countryside, they tended to last for days. She had been prepared to hole up with a few books and some wine in Crowley’s country abode for a week or two, attend the party one evening, and perhaps socialize around the nearest village some to sell the charade that she and Crowley were married Instead, she’d spent five days in Elijah Howard’s manor, sharing a room with Crowley at night, talking to the other ladies during the day, and participating in festivities every evening. For a being accustomed to spending much of her time alone or with carefully selected groups of people, it was exhausting. Aziraphale had felt more rejuvenated after a reprimand from Heaven than she did right now.

Rebecca’s friend, a Mr. Nicholas Sadler, whispered something too quietly for Aziraphale to hear with human senses, and Rebecca giggled before turning back to Aziraphale and Crowley. “Don’t take too long or people will talk.”

“Let them.” Crowley waved the young couple off with the hand not occupied by a glass of mulled wine. “It’s Christmas. We’re supposed to misbehave.”

“Yes.” Rebecca giggled again, and Aziraphale suspected she was planning some misbehaving of her own. “We would miss you singing, however.” With that, she slipped her hand into Mr. Sadler’s and pulled him from the room.

Aziraphale took a sip of mulled wine as she watched them leave. “You know, I do believe that young Miss Howard is quite taken with Mr. Sadler. If you wished to get her father’s mind away from marrying her off, you could suggest a match with him.”

“Already have.” Crowley leaned back further on the settee, somehow moving farther into Aziraphale’s space—quite unnecessarily as they were alone in the room. “Sadler is the neighbor’s nephew and his heir. Howard won’t hear of it, even though Sadler is quite well off enough to be satisfied with the small dowry Howard is willing to part with.”

“And you’re to _start_ a feud between Mr. Howard and the neighbor?” Aziraphale twisted so she could look directly at Crowley. “Are you certain? It sounds as though there already is one.”

“There was.” Crowley drank the last of his mulled wine. “It died down when Mrs. Howard took ill. Hell wants it started up again.”

“It seems that arranging a match between Miss Howard and Mr. Sadler would be an easy way to do that, then. Unless you think Mr. Howard would take it out on his daughter?”

“Possibly.” Crowley glared into his mug until Aziraphale snapped her fingers, refilling it from the pot bubbling in the kitchen.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale took a dainty sip of her own mulled wine, savoring the rich spices as they mixed with the earthy and fruity flavors of the wine.

Crowley took a much larger swallow of his wine. “If we were to arrange for them to be caught in a compromising position, Mr. Sadler would do the right thing, but Mr. Howard might blame his daughter for allowing herself to be compromised.” He set the wine on his knee where it balanced only because it was expected to. “Does Miss Howard even want to marry the boy, or is she taken with the idea of marrying someone her father disapproves of?”

“She holds him in high regard, I know that much. She’s spoken of little besides him this past week.” Aziraphale took another dainty sip. “She could do much worse than marry him. Probably will if she has to settle for whoever her father can find. Honestly, I would not be surprised to learn she’s already plotting something that will all but force her father to accept Mr. Sadler as a suitor. You saw how she was with him just now.”

“Yes, but it’s Christmas. She’s allowed to be a tad improper. And wanting to force her father into something is not the same as actually wanting that thing.”

“You know, it really is quite lovely of you to worry about what Rebecca wants.” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley but pushed on before he could react to the compliment. “Miss Howard knows what she’s doing, my dear. She is pushing the limits of what is acceptable even at Christmas. Have you noticed how adept she is at avoiding the mistletoe unless Mr. Sadler is nearby?”

“Almost as good as you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s heart absolutely did not stutter in her chest. She’d avoided the mistletoe because she didn’t want to put Crowley on the spot. They were associates trading favors, perhaps friends, but that was all. She hadn’t wanted to make him uncomfortable by all but forcing him to kiss her if they’d been caught under the mistletoe together. But he’d been paying enough attention to notice she’d been avoiding it. Had he also been hoping to catch her under it?

No. She wouldn’t let her thoughts go there. It wasn’t proper. Or _safe_. If Heaven or Hell got word of what they were doing here, well. She wouldn’t add to the risk. She wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Instead, she straightened her spine and gave Crowley a haughty look. “I _am_ a married woman.”

“Who won’t even let her husband catch her under the mistletoe.” Crawley kissed Aziraphale's hand and climbed to his feet. “Come on, angel. Let’s go see what they’re singing. Maybe we’ll have a chance to push Mr. Sadler and Miss Howard together.”

Aziraphale let herself be led down the hall, wondering all the while if she should let Crowley kiss her under the mistletoe. She was so caught up in worrying about it, that she completely missed the sprig hanging over the door to the piano room.

Crowley, however, did notice and leaned in with a wicked grin. “Caught you.” He gave Aziraphale ample time to pull away—no one was watching them and she wouldn’t have faced even the mildest social repercussions for stepping out from under the mistletoe—but she didn’t. She watched with a steady gaze as Crowley moved closer and closer, wondering if he was actually going to follow through with it.

His lips brushed Aziraphale's and she sighed, her eyes closing of their own volition as she leaned against him, relishing the sensation. It was a soft, gentle kiss, almost chaste, and yet it left Aziraphale feeling flustered. It had held the promise of more, the promise of something Aziraphale didn’t dare consider, not with their loyalties to Heaven and Hell.

When Crowley pulled back, Aziraphale put her fingers to her lips and gazed at Crowley with an expression that probably said too much. “Oh. That was….” She trailed of, uncertain what it was or how to describe it.

Crowley’s soft smile morphed into a smirk. “Had to keep up appearances, angel. It would have looked odd if I hadn’t dared kiss my _wife_ under the mistletoe.”

“No one was—“ but Aziraphale saw that they _were_ being watched, by none other than Mr. Howard. The look he cast Aziraphale's way was enough to make her think uncharitable thoughts about the man. He might actually deserve what was coming to him if—when[9]—he succumbed to Crowley’s temptation. “I see. I think perhaps it might be time to encourage Miss Howard a bit. Do you think you could tempt them to do something… inappropriate… if we got them alone?”

“Could do.” Crowley shrugged and tucked one hand into his pocket. He extended the other arm to Aziraphale, who took it. “How do we get them alone, though?”

“There are some lovely plants in the garden. Perhaps Miss Howard could be persuaded to show them to us?”

“’s a bit nippy for an outdoor stroll, angel.” Crowley shuddered dramatically. “They’d have to put on so many layers, they couldn’t do anything inappropriate if they tried.”

“Perhaps fetching more mulled wine from the kitchen?” Aziraphale pulled on power and all the wine glasses in the room found themselves a bit emptier. “It’s probably been long enough that people are ready for new glasses. As hostess, Miss Howard should be thrilled to help.”

“Could work.” Crowley started walking around the room as if they were simply looking for the best spot to stand and join in the singing. Midway around the room, Aziraphale made a show of looking for a glass of wine then released Crowley’s arm and headed to Miss Howard.

“Mrs. Crowley.” The young woman smiled as Aziraphale approached. “I’m so glad you could join us for caroling.”

As she had for the past week, Aziraphale had to remind herself that _she_ was Mrs. Crowley. It took some getting used to, as she’d been Miss or Mr. Fell for longer than any of the humans present had been alive. “As am I, my dear. Singing is such a delight, don’t you think? Only I was hoping I could prevail upon you to get more mulled wine from the kitchen?” She pressed her fingers to the throat. “It does help ease the strain of singing.”

“Of course!” Miss Howard pressed her hand to her chest and looked toward the sideboard where glasses had been set out earlier in the evening. “I had thought… but of course, the servants aren’t restocking them tonight, are they? I’d forgotten we’d given them the night off!”

“I would be happy to assist, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned in as though the woman was a confidant and not someone she had met only five days earlier. “Perhaps we can enlist Mr. Crowley and your Mr. Sadler to help carry them?”

“Oh, he’s not my Mr. Sadler, Mrs. Crowley,” she protested. Aziraphale had never heard a more rote protest in her life.[10] “We’re merely friends.”

“That isn’t what I’ve heard. Mr. Crowley tells me that the lad speaks of little besides you.” Aziraphale linked her arm with Miss Howards and led the young woman over toward Crowley. “If you were to encourage him, I have no doubt he would be quite pleased to make an offer for your hand.”

“Father wouldn’t…” She trailed off as they reached Crowley, clearly not willing to continue that line of thought in front of him.

Aziraphale patted her arm and smiled up at her husband. “Could you help us bring out more wine, dear?”

Crowley smiled back, and Aziraphale's heart definitely did _not_ do a little flip in her chest at the sight. “How could I possibly refuse?” He turned to the man he’d been talking to. “Sadler here was just mentioning he wanted some wine. We’ll both help you.”

There was no polite way for Mr. Sadler to refuse, not that Aziraphale thought he wanted to, so the four of them slipped from the room and into the kitchen. It was big and empty, with a pot of wine bubbling over the hearth and some of the finger foods that the servants had prepared before leaving sitting on the large central table. It was warm and cozy, and if there hadn’t been an express purpose to them slipping away, Aziraphale would have been tempted to hide here with Crowley instead of rejoining the party.

Instead, she took the glasses from Miss Howard and began filling them with the ladle that was hung by the side of the hearth. She focused on the task, doing her best to let Crowley tempt without distraction, and soon she’d filled all the glasses. She turned to find Crowley watching her with an amused smile and no one else visible in the kitchen. “Where did Miss Howard and Mr. Sadler go?”

“I suggested they fetch more wood for the hearth. They’re getting it.”

Aziraphale extended her senses and could hear noises beyond the door leading to the small storage area. It did not sound like two people gathering up wood. “Both of them?”

“They seemed quite unable to resist the temptation of a few minutes together in a private room.” Crowley leaned against the table, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face that would, in the future, be described as _shit-eating_. “Can’t imagine why.”

Aziraphale huffed fondly. “Fiend.”

“I had very little to do with it,” Crowley protested, though it was clear he didn’t mean it any more than Aziraphale had meant the insult. “I simply… mentioned that the fire was looking a little low. They did the rest. Well, most of the rest.” Crowley snapped his fingers and a rack of supplies collapsed to the ground with a clatter that was sure to attract the attention of the carolers.

A quick glance told Aziraphale that nothing was broken aside from a few easily repairable fasteners. It was an unlikely but plausible accident. Less plausible was the fact that Miss Howard and Mr. Sadler seemed to have not heard the noise that brought Mr. Howard and several other guests rushing into the kitchen, though Crowley’s desperate lunge for the door as he attempted to look like he was warning the two young people was believable. Mr. Sadler opened the door, his arm still around Miss Howard, just as Mr. Howard rushed into the kitchen.

“What the devil is— _Rebecca_! What are you doing?”

Mr. Sadler stepped from the room. “We were fetching firewood to stock the hearth, sir.”

“I asked my daughter, not _you_.” Mr. Howard pushed the younger man aside and stood in front of Rebecca. “What were you doing in there? Fetching firewood does not require the door to be closed! Nor does it take two people!”

“Father, we were just—”

Aziraphale stepped in then, unable to bear the stricken look on the girl’s face. She and Crowley had gotten her into that situation, and she would get her out of it if necessary. “It’s my fault, I’m afraid. It’s, well, it’s Christmas and Crowley and I are newly married. We asked them to fetch firewood for the hearth and then we got distracted, I’m afraid.” She made herself blush as she lowered her head, though she let her eyes dart to Crowley. “We should have kept a closer eye.”

Mr. Howard’s expression flashed from outraged to conciliatory, likely as he remembered the influence and money Aziraphale's husband possessed. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Crowley. Mr. Sadler has been trying to get alone with my daughter all week. I believe he took advantage of the situation.”

Aziraphale managed to look suitably distressed. “Oh my. I do hope you won’t be too hard on them. I’m certain Mr. Sadler will do the correct thing.”

“He’ll have to now.” Mr. Howard glared at the older gentleman standing next to Mr. Sadler. “Is this what you had in mind, Neave? Have your nephew compromise my daughter’s virtue and capitalize on the scandal?”

Sadler stepped forward and took Miss Howard’s hand. “My uncle knew nothing about it and I would be honored to marry your daughter. If you give permission, we will seek out a license as soon as possible.”

Mr. Howard looked at Mr. Sadler with what Aziraphale was certain was grudging respect. “We’ll talk. Rebecca, take our guests back to the piano room. I won’t let this ruin the party. You and I will have words later.”

The crowd dispersed, Mr. Sadler & Mr. Howard heading off to the latter’s office while everyone else followed Miss Howard back to the piano. There were murmurs and whispers, as they went, but nothing that would be ruinous assuming Mr. Sadler followed through.

Aziraphale and Crowley hung back until the kitchen was again empty except for the two of them. Aziraphale looked around, taking in the glasses of mulled wine on the table and the scattered rack on the floor, and wrung her hands. “Oh my. We made quite a mess, didn’t we? It seems a shame to leave it for the servants.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and the rack was upright, leaning against the wall, while its contents were stacked neatly on the table. “There. Now all that needs done is fixing the fasteners. No one will suspect a thing.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “It should be quite easy to restart that feud now. I do hope you won’t have to tempt Mr. Sadler into backing out, though. I’d hate to have played a part in damaging Miss Howard’s reputation. She’s quite a sweet young woman.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, angel.” Crowley picked two trays up from the pile on the table and held one out to Aziraphale. “Shall we bring the wine in?”

“Might as well.” Aziraphale took the tray and began loading it with as many cups of mulled wine as could fit.[11]

By the time they reached the piano room, the guests were singing as though they hadn’t been interrupted. They were halfway through a song Aziraphale recognized—past the part she disliked—and after she set the wine on the sideboard, she joined in the singing.

_Mild he lays his Glory by,  
Born that Men no more may die;_

“Really, angel?”

Aziraphale shot a withering glance at Crowley. The amusement in his tone didn’t cover the disparaging nature of his comment. “I like this verse,” she murmured, doing her best not to let the sound carry and disrupt the singing.

_Born to raise the sons of Earth,  
Born to give them second Birth._

“You would.”

“Hush. You liked him too.”

“Yes, as a person, not as _Her_ son.”

_Come, Desire of Nations, come,  
Fix in us thy heav'nly Home;_

Crowley made an indelicate noise as the singers continued. “See? The song is about him just being born, and they’re already putting wild expectations on him. With that attitude, he never stood a chance.”

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment. “That part is a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit.”

_Rise the Woman's conqu'ring Seed,  
Bruise in us the Serpent's Head._

Aziraphale stopped singing midway through the line. “Oh dear. I had forgotten about that bit.”

Crowley winced. “Most people don’t usually get to this verse, thank Satan. I’d swear that line was Hastur’s doing, but he doesn’t have the imagination.”

_Adam's Likeness now efface,  
Stamp thy Image in its Place;_

“I’m quite certain humans were responsible for the whole song. They’re quite creative that way.”

“I prefer it when they’re creative in other ways,” Crowley groused, scowling at the piano as though he were daring the person sitting on the bench to play another song that mentioned him.

_Second Adam from above,  
Work it in us by thy Love._ [12]

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to distract you, then?” There was another sprig of mistletoe hanging not far from the sideboard. Holding Crowley’s gaze through his glasses, Aziraphale deliberately stepped under it. “It would be a shame if someone else caught me under this.”

Crowley let out a low hiss as he stepped forward and cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands. As he leaned in, Aziraphale pushed up onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck.

They completely missed the next song.

**December 2018 – London Soho**

“I wonder what happened to them?” Crowley took a sip of his wine. “I always meant to check in on the daughter and her beau, but I rather lost track after I made sure the feud got started up again.”

“Mr. Sadler married her and they had several children.” Aziraphale picked up a chocolate biscuit from the plate on the table. “I exchanged friendly correspondence with her for several years, long after I’d stopped going by _Mrs. Crowley_.”

Crowley took another sip of his wine. After a moment, he said, “Well, good for her. I’m glad her father didn’t ruin everything. Would’ve been funny if we’d pretended to be married to stop a scandal and ended up causing one instead.”

“It would not! That poor girl never would’ve recovered! And you wouldn’t have completed your mission!” He took a bite of his biscuit and looked down into his mug. “And we weren’t _pretending_ to be married. We were married. Still are, I suppose.”

“We’re _what_?” Crowley sat up with a suddenness that made his wine slosh out of the mug and stared at Aziraphale in shock. “I thought you just miracled our names into the register! It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t real.”

“Of course it was real! You got us a license!”

“I _miracled_ us a license, angel.”

“A real one, though?”

“Well, yes, but—” Crowley downed the rest of his wine and refilled the mug with a snap. Despite the heat of the beverage, he downed that in one gulp as well. “I know I didn’t sign a church register. I would’ve remembered.”

“You signed the page I added to the church register.”

Crowley looked confused. “When did I…?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We didn’t have a ceremony in a church. Lord Hardwicke’s Act _required_ a ceremony in a church, angel. Since I didn’t go into a church, we couldn’t possibly have been legally married.”

“We had a ceremony on church grounds,” Aziraphale said apologetically. He really had meant to do something about the marriage when it had no longer served its purpose, but there’d been so much going on and by the time he remembered, they’d had that fight about holy water and, well, he’d kept it on the books simply because it gave him a connection to Crowley in a time he was certain he’d never speak to the demon again.

“We what? When?”

“We went to the parish church the Sunday before the party so I could add our names to the register, remember?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember any ceremony, angel.”

“Well, we needed to speak to the vicar as well so he would remember us if Mr. Howard asked, and, well, you remember. He blessed us.”

“Yes. It stung.”

“Well, there was an audience and it was at the church, so technically it satisfied the requirements and we were married. Well, AJ Crowley and Angelica Fell were married, at least.”

Crowley took a long drink from his refilled mulled wine, and set it aside with a seriousness that made Aziraphale’s heart stutter. He crossed the room with slow, measured steps and leaned down into Aziraphale’s space until they were practically nose-to nose. “You’re telling me,” he said, enunciating each word, “that we’ve been married for _two hundred years_?”

Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze evenly, unafraid despite the menace emanating from Crowley. “Yes.”

“And in all that time, it didn’t occur to you to tell me?”

“I meant to! Well, really, I meant to get it annulled, but we got so busy! We were both assigned to assist Charles Babbage with his difference engine—and can you imagine how our superiors would have reacted if they’d known we had _both_ been ordered to do that—and then Mary Shelley returned to England as a widow, the poor dear, and I got caught up encouraging her to write more. I didn’t remember until after we had that awful argument over holy water and by then, everyone thought Angelica Fell had died since I’d been man-shaped again for a few years. At that point, it seemed silly.”

“Silly.” Crowley’s eyebrows slid up towards his hairline. “Really. You remembered after we’d stopped speaking to each other, and you _didn’t take care of it_.”

“As you said. We had stopped speaking. For good, I thought. It was… something to hold on to. I’d forgotten about it again by the time you saved me in that church.”

“And now?”

“Well, it seems a bit silly to go to all the trouble.” Aziraphale put on his most innocent expression. It wouldn’t fool Crowley for a moment, but it was always fun to let his inner bastard out for a bit. “You were planning to propose eventually, weren’t you?”

Crowley made an inarticulate sound and lunged forward to kiss Aziraphale with so much strength the chair almost fell over. As he miracled them upstairs, certain that the next bit would be much more pleasant on a bed, Aziraphale decided to take that as a “yes.”

* * *

[1] Everyone was always on edge during the winter holidays, what with end-of-year things to wrap up at work and school, pressure from family, and the endless adverts telling them they had to spend all their money on gifts. Causing small annoyances to turn into giant frustrations was never easier.[Return to text]

[2]It was. Aziraphale had influenced the idea of publishing Carols for Choirs, and had slipped in a bit of influence to drop the lines _Rise the Woman's conqu'ring Seed,/ Bruise in us the Serpent's Head_ from the version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” that made it into the book that—with a bit of angelic intervention—became the seminal source for choir carol music in the UK.[Return to text]

[3]Only true in the sense that it meant _everything_ instead. Aziraphale had been searching for something nice to do for Crowley for nearly 20 years when he influenced the 1961 publication of Carols for Choirs and that was the first thing that seemed suitable.([4][Return to text]

[4]He later realized that despite being a suitably romantic gesture, it was ineffective because Crowley didn’t know he had done it. Hence the Holy Water incident of 1967.[Return to text]

[5]Relatively. It was about five years old—the last big thing Aziraphale had purchased before deciding to be woman-shaped for a while—but that was a mere blink to an ethereal being.[Return to text]

[6]Most proper ladies weren’t currently drinking wine unless it was mulled, but Aziraphale’s tastes had been formed long before she chose to appear female and in private she saw no reason to pretend she agreed with the current sentiment.[Return to text]

[7]Contrary to popular belief, Crowley could quite easily go to Ireland. Human saints didn’t actually have the power to perpetually banish a demon from a particular country. He wasn’t above using the rumor to his advantage, however, and had once told Aziraphale that Saint Patrick had banished him from Ireland[8] to get out of an unappealing temptation.[Return to text]

[8]It wasn’t a lie. Patrick _had_ banished him. It had been bloody inconvenient, since without a point of origin from a summoning, Crowley had ended up back in Hell, but it hadn’t kept him away from Ireland for long. He’d gone right back after getting all of his late reports to Dagon.[Return to text]

[9]Aziraphale had no doubt that Crowley’s temptation would be successful. The question was simply _when_ it would happen, not if it would. Ordinarily, she found the idea distasteful even when she carried out the temptations herself as part of the Arrangement. She was willing to make an exception for Elijah Howard. The man was every bit as awful as Crowley had said even on the rare occasions when he was thinking about something other than marrying his daughter off so he didn’t have to keep supporting her.[Return to text]

[10]Including the bits before time began, and Aziraphale had heard Gabriel “protest” that he didn’t want a commendation. She had believed that more than she believed Miss Howard.[Return to text]

[11]Aziraphale and Crowley naturally had advantages that the humans lacked when it came to carrying full trays of wine. First, they were strong enough to carry it no matter how much wine was on it and second, they expected that none of it would spill and so it didn’t. A human attempting to carry as much wine as Aziraphale put on her tray wouldn’t have made it out of the kitchen without spilling at least half.[Return to text]

[12]From George Whitefield’s “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” adapted in 1758 from Charles Wesley’s 1739 song “Hymn for Christmas-Day”[Return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://peppervl.tumblr.com/) if that's your thing.


End file.
